


Old Dogs

by cinnamxn



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Animal Death, Connor (Detroit: Become Human) Licking Things, Gen, Hank Anderson Adopts Connor, Loss, rated for language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 03:17:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20269144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cinnamxn/pseuds/cinnamxn
Summary: No amount of right decisions can prevent death.





	Old Dogs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cobblethotticus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cobblethotticus/gifts).

> I was gonna spare you all from this but then Cobblethot told me to post a DBH fic so here we are. You read the tags. You know what's happening.

**FEB 15TH 2041  
03:42:09 AM**

Sometimes Hank will wake in the middle of the night. Connor theorises he is driven to insomnia mostly by particularly trying cases, and occasionally provoked by a nearby anniversary he finds traumatic – the days between Cole’s birthday and death, most noteworthily.

When he does this, it’s to stare at an unopened bottle of whiskey for upwards of eighteen seconds; fighting alcoholic urges. Usually he will successfully convince himself not to resort to the old habits. Then instead he’ll settle for water, checking on Connor with a glass in hand. Maybe it’s not Connor he’s looking at, however, when he looks in the room which once belonged to Cole Anderson. Connor began to occupy the bedroom after three months, six days and fourteen hours of being restricted to the couch. Hank finds some sort of satisfaction in checking on Connor, and then returns to bed after a bathroom trip.

This night is different for many reasons.

The cases they are on currently are all relatively simple. Unchallenging cases with typical levels of violence, no involvement of small children, and relatively obvious explanations. Cole Anderson’s dates of birth and death are both months away, and their visits to his grave have remained consistent in frequency. This night is different, and rather than make it to the bottle of whiskey hidden at the back of the kitchen pantry, Hank stops when he reaches the end of the hallway.

“You’re still awake…” Hank states, unsurprised by the observation. Connor nods, hands gliding over Sumo’s snout, down his neck and fingers hooking under his chin to give a comforting scratch.

The two are snuggled at the foot of the couch, Sumo draped over Connor’s crossed legs in such a way that a human couldn’t withstand for more than a few minutes. It has been four hours, seventeen minutes and forty-three seconds since either of them had moved. The soft folds of Sumo’s skin wrap around Connor’s legs, one-hundred and seventy pounds of warmth, with tired, droopy eyes and a steady stream of drool to lather over Connor’s sleeves.

Connor wishes he had done this more often over the past two years. Regrets that he hadn’t thought of it before he found an untouched dog bowl several hours after feeding. Before he discovered an unwillingness to go on their evening walks together. “I didn’t want him to be alone.”

Looking up at the older man, who has begun to lean against the hallway wall, Connor manages a small smile. “He seems to be taking full advantage of my presence.”

Hank snorts, wearing his own tragic smile. “...Yeah. He’s always been a sucker, hasn’t he?” Sumo’s tail beats against Connor’s leg, punctuating a pause between them. “You made a decision, yet?”

Three options hover before Connor’s eyes, none of them too promising.

** _SURGERY. EUTHANASIA. DO NOTHING._ **

The options are timed. He has approximately until the morning to choose surgery as an option. Euthanasia is a choice that will last longer; he predicts about a week before it becomes too late.

Only one choice gives Sumo a chance at surviving.

“We have to try…” Connor begins, knowing it isn’t what Hank wants. The man has always had a profound respect for mortality. Refuting Connor’s health advice when they first met because _Everybody’s gotta die of something_, and Connor knows Hank has already accepted that this is where Sumo dies.

Connor deals with death every day. He’s seen human corpses in every state of rot imaginable, android shells drained of thirium by red ice manufacturers, rooms drenched in blood blue and red. Despite that, Connor’s never been present for someone before their death before. Never seen the before and after quite so clearly as he does now, looking down at a much too heavy old dog, still as lovable as ever despite the clear signs of his decay.

He can’t stand it. He must do something. Anything.

“It’ll cost an arm and a leg,” Hank peels himself from the wall, heading to the fridge. Retrieving a single beer that Connor doesn’t have the energy to scold him for.

Instead, he shrugs minutely. “My arms and legs are replaceable. Sumo isn’t.”

Hank gives a dry laugh, and Connor’s LED cycles red, confused. He doesn’t find this very funny. “Jesus, Connor…” the old man mumbles into the lips of his bottle, slumping on the couch in Connor’s periphery. “It’s a saying, I don’t mean- don’t tell me you’re serious.” Connor tells Hank all he needs to know with a moment of silence, and Hank sighs beside him. Realising that the plan is rejected, Connor pulls Sumo in closer, eliciting a sad whine from the pet.

“I suppose that might be a bit extreme, but… I know I can find a way to afford it, sell some stuff… I realise you’d rather let him go, Hank, but I want to give him the best chance possible.”

“It’s not that I want to lose him,” Hank sighs. “Cole loved that dog, and lord knows so did I, but… how long will it last? The surgery, that is. He’s an old dog, this has been a long time coming.”

Sumo whines, paws kicking at the pain he’s enduring, and Connor’s fingers comb through his fur, LED flashing red once again. Hank, too, leans over Connor to pet Sumo. Comforting strokes of his ears, and neck.

How empty this house would feel without the big, dopey dog. How empty his evenings without their walks. How uneventful the last Saturday of the month without the challenge of getting Sumo into a bath.

There would be no fur on Hank’s jacket, no saliva on Connor’s cuffs, no disappearing ties or chewed leather or clogged vacuum cleaners. No leaving stasis to keep the dog quiet so he wouldn’t wake Hank, no snuggles after a long day at work…

Connor’s eyes blur; something that hasn’t happened to him before. He raises a hand to determine the cause, wiping wetness away from them. Of course, Connor knew he could cry; had been programmed extensively with unnecessary functions meant for integration and undercover work. The response had never been triggered, however, and now that it had it only made everything worse. Emphasised just how important Sumo had become to him; how lost he’d be without the dog.

Hank’s attention turns, comforting the android instead of the dog that truly needs it. “It’s okay, son…” he mutters, clearly lost for words. “We’ll call the vet and schedule that surgery first thing in the morning. Alright? If we can’t afford it, we’ll just have to sell some stuff.”

Connor doesn’t say yes or no. He hides his face in Sumo’s neck, breathing in the scent of the dog. Androids can’t smell like humans, but the analysis comes back clear as day; confirming the cause of the aroma, able to tell how much dirt clings to the dog’s skin, the kind of shampoo they use for his baths, the slight decay of his skin beneath what they can see.

The entire night has been spent memorising every detail of Sumo. Pulling old memories from his files to review, or simply drowning in the Saint Bernard’s softness, relishing the warmth of the present time.

“It’s not fair…” Connor sighs, eyes closed, hiding his LED within the thick brown fur.

“It’s the way things are,” Hank rests a hand on Connor’s back, rubbing soothing circles into his shoulders. As he swishes beer through his mouth, Connor recognises the pause that comes when Hank tries to put emotions into words. It’s the sound of him searching for a way to comfort Connor – searching for the clinical compromise between their mismatched personalities.

“Sumo’s life may be short, Connor, but that’s just how we know we need to appreciate it while it lasts.” There’s a tenderness in Hank’s voice that was never meant for Connor. It’s too pronounced, like he’s explaining it to a child, “I… Fuck. I don’t know what to tell you. It’s just… What _living_ is.”

Tears still lay tracks down Connor’s synthetic skin. Sumo outlived Cole.

It makes him think.

“Androids can live for nearly two hundred years, Hank…” he whispers, and his tears are so overwhelming it comes out barley a croak. “But you… humans…” the words die in his throat.

It takes three minutes and forty-eight seconds for Hank to reply.

“Sumo needs you, Connor. Don’t waste his time worrying about _this_ old dog.”

**JULY 27TH 2041  
06:32AM**

_ **FIVE MONTHS SINCE SUMO’S SURGERY.** _

There’s a dead dog on the floor of the kitchen.

His body temperature suggests he’s been dead for about two hours, and there’s no signs of decay on the fresh corpse. His eyes are glued shut, and there’s no sign that he died in pain. In fact, he hasn’t moved from where he fell asleep last night.

It was like Hank warned. The surgery would only delay the inevitable by a few months.

Connor inspects the body like he would a crime scene. The crying subroutines are forcing themselves open but he shuts them down just as fast. Delete feelings. Delete emotions. This is a dead body. A mystery that Connor needs to solve. But it’s not.

He already knows the victim. Saint Bernard. 10 years old. Adopted by Hank Anderson in 2031. He died of one of the huge number of health issues the old dog had been diagnosed over the last year; so many it could have been any of them. Connor knows that nothing could have saved him. Knows that this was going to happen soon no matter what he did to delay it.

There are reminders of the dog’s life throughout the room, scattered like in any home-bound crime scene. Chew toys, remnants of food in his dog bowl, a yellowish stain on the carpet, a leash thrown over the back-door handle, a half-chewed tie that would never be thoroughly destroyed, a scratch on the door from a pair of large, excitable paws.

On the collar around his neck are letters. The name brushes against Connor’s thoughts but he pushes it back.

It’s too hard to think of what the dog was before he died. What he meant to Connor. What him being gone means to him.

Connor can hardly bring himself to look.

He has no idea what to do with a dead dog on the floor.

The android reaches out, carefully pressing a hand against the limp head, scratching lightly the skin of the large dog’s cheek. There’s no response. No whimper or bark or slobber. Connor retracts his hand, staring at the hairs that cling to his synthetic skin.

Legally, when a body is discovered, the police are called. Connor is the police. He gulps, an anxious tick that has no reason applying to him. Once the police have identified the body, the family needs to be identified.

Hank’s door is closed, the Lieutenant snoozing away on the other side. On a good day, he wouldn’t wake up for another two hours at the least. This is not a good day.

Connor stares back at his hands, not sure whether he should wipe the furs from them. A part of him wants to preserve everything. Hold Sumo close, so he can’t possibly be gone.

Where do dogs go when they die?

Humans have so many notions of afterlife, but Connor, who has died, knows no such thing exists for androids. They’re there, then they’re gone.

Now Sumo is gone.

_Sumo_.

His legs buckle beneath him as he tries to stand on his feet.

And his stress levels are way too high. And his peripheral vision blares red. And he reaches out for the dog as if he might get up by the sheer power of Connor’s need. And an inhuman cry leaves Connor’s lips because the only way he knows how to calm down when he’s like this is to hold _Sumo_.

Connor pushes his hand against his mouth, but the cry only turns into a low keening as his eyes overflow.

It takes a few minutes before he can bury the feelings deep down and focus once again.

Covering his LED, Connor stands. He gives the dog a wide berth as he makes his way to the bedroom in the hallway. From Hank’s bedroom door, he can see Sumo draped along the floor near the kitchen, on his side near his food bowl. From here, it would be difficult to see anything wrong with the dog. Easy enough to confuse him for sleeping.

The longer Connor looks, the more it seems like Sumo is breathing. He hesitates, hoping he made a mistake, knowing it’s only wishful thinking. Irrational.

A gentle knock on Hank’s door. Tentative with fear. Then, Connor twists the handle and invites himself in.

Somewhere beneath a thick set of blankets, Hank Anderson shifts, but does not wake. Connor doesn’t close the door behind him, and with his hand still over his LED, he whispers the human’s name. It’s useless, of course, and Connor resorts to reaching out with his other hand and shaking the Lieutenant. “Hank,” he says, loud enough this time to actually be considered a word. There’s a confused groan, but it isn’t enough. “Hank!” Connor snaps louder, and this time Hank fights against the manhandling, swatting Connor away.

“The fuck is it, Connor?” he spits. He brings the blankets around him again, snuggling tighter within his cocoon this time. “I told you, ‘s no way I’m getting up before eight.” The grumpy remarks annoy Connor, who with one hand manages to strip the blankets entirely, no regard for Hank’s indecent state of dress. Hank, finally, wakes up. “Hey!”

As Connor drops the blanket on the floor, giving Hank the fiercest glare he has programmed, the Lieutenant finally looks at him, eyes as narrow and angered as Connor’s. “What the fuck, Connor?!”

Connor speaks fast, forcing the words out while his frustration can keep them firm. “Sumo’s dead,” he says, and like that, his feelings well up once again, but he shoves them down as efficiently as he covers the red warning light on his forehead.

It takes a moment for Hank to process before his face finally softens. He lets out a weary sigh, pulling himself from the bed. Connor tries to look elsewhere. So his LED doesn’t face Hank. So Hank can’t see how the pain is tearing away at Connor’s ability to emote neutrally.

Connor hears Hank sitting up, the springs of the bed groaning under his weight. “Shit, Connor… I’m sorry…”

“I don’t know what to do with the body,” Connor confesses, barely keeping his voice steady. 

Hank stands. He hovers for a moment, and when Connor looks at him, he realises Hank is holding back his own emotions, wondering if he should hug Connor. Dressed in nothing but his boxers, there’s a high probability that it would be inappropriate.

“Let me get dressed,” Hank finally manages in a low voice. “Then we’ll bury him, okay?”

So Connor waits outside the door. He pretends not to see Sumo lying dead near the kitchen. He pretends not to hear Hank crying to himself on the other side of the door. He pretends fourteen minutes is a normal amount of time to get dressed.

“Alright,” Hank declares with false energy as he opens the door. Immediately, his eyes fall on Sumo, pulling his lips into a frown. “Let’s do this,” he says quieter, and Connor does not miss the redness of his eyes.

Rather than approach Sumo, Hank heads outside, to the garden shed. Since Hank doesn’t do a lot of gardening, there isn’t a great deal in there, but there is the shovel they use to manage Sumo’s faeces. Now it’s being used to dig a grave. Logically, Connor should be the one to do it – he doesn’t get tired, and is much more suited to manual labour. Instead, Hank and him take turns, and Connor doesn’t have the energy to complain.

Throughout the task, Connor doesn’t know what to say. Hank does, filling the silence with stories of Sumo from before Connor met him.

“You know, he was even more trouble when he was a pup,” Hank huffs, goes for another sip of his coffee as he watches Connor work. It’s 7:27AM now, and only Hank’s first coffee. Connor suspects the adrenaline of loss is finally falling into weariness. “You know much about housetraining a pup, Connor?”

“No, Lieutenant,” Connor grunts.

“It never goes well,” Hank confesses. “See, Sumo thought I was getting rid of him if I shut him out there without me. Felt unsafe. So I had to wait for him to do what he needed – he had no idea what that was. Bloody dog thought it was playtime.”

And surprisingly, Connor smiles.

Hank huffs out a laugh. “So one day, I’m out there after work. Nearly for a goddamn hour on my phone as he rolls around in the grass. Cause I’m tired I go inside of course, and he follows me in. Isn’t long before I’m having a nap on the couch while the game’s playing. You know what I wake up to?”

Though he’s getting the picture, Connor asks anyway. “What did you wake up to, Lieutenant?”

“Piss… all over the fucking kitchen floor.”

Hank and Connor swap places once Hank’s coffee is finished. From there, it’s only a few minutes before the hole is big enough for the deceased. Without a task to focus on, Connor feels his thoughts wandering again. Hank, too, seems to drain of energy once they’ve done.

“What now?”

“Grab his blanket, we’ll wrap him up in it.”

Sumo’s blanket hasn’t maintained any of his warmth. He hasn’t slept in his bed behind the couch for days. Connor wonders if that was his way of telling them that something was wrong.

It still smells like him, though. Is still covered in his fur, though. When Connor brushes it against his tongue (without letting Hank see him do it), the readings show dog fur and slobber and dirt and the pet shampoo sitting unusable now in the bathroom cabinet.

Hank is knelt by the body, giving Sumo his own final pats, whispered mutterings of ‘You were a good boy,’ and tears in the corner of his eyes once again.

For a moment, Connor breaks. He doesn’t know what to do. His thirium pump halts without any input to process. Falling is tempting. Connor could let go and dip into stasis without ever coming out of it – just like that. Then with a static heave, he tears his face away from the blanket and approaches Hank.

It’s Hank who takes the blanket from Connor, draping it over their beloved pet.

Connor watches as he picks the dog up with both arms. For a moment, Sumo’s underside is exposed, but Connor steps in to cover the dog’s limp paws with the blanket, tucking him firmly away. That’s the last he’ll ever see of Sumo.

As Hank makes his way towards the yard again, Connor walks ahead of him. He holds open the door for Hank to pass through, then lowers himself into the hole so that Hank doesn’t have to worry about dropping him.

With their combined efforts, they lower Sumo into his grave.

Usually, humans mark graves.

“Are we just going to leave him here?” Connor asks, disbelieving.

With a deep frown, Hank reaches for the shovel – wrenching it out of the pile of dirt they’ve made. “We’ll bury him of course,” he says. “Maybe put up a tree or something. It’s the way mother nature would want it.”

For now, they just bury him.

Connor insists on doing the work. But only manages the first load of dirt before Hank decides to take over with a comment about the state of Connor’s LED.

For the remainder of the burial, Connor watches Hank from the door, where he sits with his knees to his chest, LED tucked against the doorframe out of sight. With each shovel, Sumo is further and further from sight, and the reality begins to sink in. With his eyes closed, Connor could keep the dog forever, replaying memories like movies. Instead, he keeps his eyes wide open, focuses on the sweaty human doing a job he couldn’t bring himself to in a million years.

Hank flattens the dirt over Sumo’s grave.

That’s it.

Connor blinks several times as Hank walks straight past him. He doesn’t protest when he hears Hank calling in sick on both their behalves. When Hank sits in the doorway next to him and wraps an arm around him, Connor leans into the touch wordlessly. There’s wetness in his hair, where Hank’s cheek rests, but Connor doesn’t point it out, just like he wouldn’t want Hank to point out the tear that falls from Connor’s face onto the old man’s sleeve.

In all the horrors Connor has faced, none seems to match what he’s dealing with in that moment. Suddenly, everything he loves seems completely less permanent. Someone’s death, for the first time, isn’t dependent on his making the right decisions.

Hank will be next, his systems tell him. It makes perfect sense with the life Hank Anderson has lived.

Connor trains his voice, clearing his throat before he asks, “How do you become okay with it?”

Hank shrugs, squeezes Connor’s arm. “I don’t think you can,” he admits. “Just gotta make the most of it out of spite.”

They sit in silence, mourning silently without needing to acknowledge the other. Eventually, Connor decides to make the most of it out of spite, and wipes away his tears. “We should eat lunch at the Chicken Feed today.”

“You read my fucking mind.”


End file.
